


It Takes Two To Tango (Or To Survive Anything In Beacon Hills)

by Nurse_Jess



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Derek, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Monster of the Week, One Shot, Protective Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-09
Updated: 2015-01-09
Packaged: 2018-03-06 20:11:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3147068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nurse_Jess/pseuds/Nurse_Jess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Like usual, literal lone wolf Derek thinks he can take on the world, or in this case, the monster of the week by himself. Like usual, he's wrong. Enter Stiles to the rescue. As it turns out, they make a pretty good team,  and maybe save each other along the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Takes Two To Tango (Or To Survive Anything In Beacon Hills)

The creature bore down on him where he lay on the forest floor. This was it, the end. After everything he'd been through it came down to this, some freak of the week, and the fact that he wasn't as good as he needed to be.

Maybe if he had still been an alpha he could have. It had been a very close fight, after all. The unidentified monster that was the most recent terror of Beacon Hills was nearly as bloody and beaten as he was. The key word being nearly. So as it limped towards him to strike the final blow, he closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable. 

Exhausted, and beaten and broken, Derek Hale accepted his fate.

But it never came. Instead, he heard sudden running footsteps, the jackrabbit pounding of a human heart, and a wet, sickening thunk. He opened his blurry eyes to see the thing stumble sideways with an angry, tortured cry. Then the newcomer surged forward again with what looked like a bat, and swung for it's head a second time.

It went down, and it went down hard. It's attacker didn't relent. He swung the bat again, and again, until he was panting and creature's head was nothing more than roadkill.

And then there was silence, eerie and far too quiet. Derek stood warily, slow and dizzy as he staggered to his feet, holding on to the tree behind him until he got most of his balance back. He looked at the human standing over the decimated monster, head bowed and panting as he approached.

"St-Stiles? Stiles?" he breathed in disbelief.

The teenager whipped around, his hazel eyes wide and over-bright. Blood and dirt was sprayed across his freckled cheeks, and his hands trembling where they gripped the bat tight, white-knuckled.

"Derek." His voice was thick with relief and shook worse than his hands. "Derek, you're ok?"

A few renegade tears slid down his cheeks, his too-pale faced stunned, his head dropping as he shivered violently. Derek walked towards him slowly, hands raised palm up, trying to be as non-threatening as he could.

When he reached him, he rested his hands gently on his shaking shoulders. "Stiles." When he didn't look up, he slid his hands up the side of his neck to gently lift his face. "Stiles ..." he murmured.

"I-I needed you safe," he whispered finally, sounding .... defeated. "I needed you safe." It was like the weight of the world was on the boy's shoulders. He leaned forward, carefully, slowly, and pressed his face into Derek's bloody leather jacket, his forehead against his collar bone. His arms hung limp between them, and the bloodied bat slid from his numb fingers to land with a dull thud on the cold forest floor.

Derek lowered his arms warily, trying not to scare him anymore than he already was in his shocked state, wrapping one arm around Stiles' shoulders, the other hand smoothed the hair off the back of his neck, rubbing small, gentle circles against the skin. "It's ok. It's alright."

Stiles was gasping, panicking. Derek tightened his arms, pressed his lips to his temple and whispered "Shhh, Stiles, shhh. I've got you. It's ok."

They stayed there for a long time. Stiles silent sobs subsided into quiet sniffles. He finally carefully pushed back from Derek, looking anywhere but his face, his own cheeks flushed bright red.

"We-We should go ...." he said shakily.

Derek tried to nod and staggered sideways with a hiss and a grimace. He was dizzy, he just hadn't noticed while they had been standing still. _Lost more blood than I thought,_ he mused grimly.

"Derek, woah!" Stiles cried in alarm, his gaze whipping back to the bigger man, previous anxiety and embarrassment forgotten. He rushed forward to steady him, pulling one big, muscular arm around his neck, and snaking his own arm tight around his waist. "You're white as a sheet, man. Why didn't you say something?"

"I'll heal," he told him hoarsely as his eyes slid closed and his knees buckled slightly.

"Not quick enough, c'mon. We gotta get you somewhere safe."

"The ... the creature. We've got to ...." Derek trailed off with a frown.

"You're in no shape, dude," was the tight reply, a worried edge on his voice. How many blows to the head had he taken? How much blood had he lost? “I'll text Scott or someone to come take care of it, and make sure there aren't any more. You need to lie down ASAP."

He half-supported, half-dragged the big werewolf to his Jeep a few minutes up the trail. He struggled for a moment holding the man up and opening the door and finally managed, settling Derek in.

He braced one hand on his thigh and leaned across him to buckle him. As he pulled back slightly, his breath caught in his throat as he realized how damn close they were.

Derek was pale, ghost-white, sweat beading on his forehead. His lips were dry and parted. He was close enough to see the green flecks in his dark eyes. There was something else in his dark eyes too. Maybe something a little like wonderment.....

"Y-you're gonna be ok," he whispered to him. He was so worried and unsure of what would happen, but he knew what he needed to do. "I've got you, Hale."

Maybe it was the blood loss, maybe it was a head wound, or maybe it was something else entirely, but Derek snaked a hand around the arm braced on his leg, breathing hard. He looked him straight in the eyes, pain evident on his face. "I trust you," he murmured.

Stiles felt his mouth drop open in surprise. He gaped like a fish and he knew it, but he had no response. Finally he gave his leg a brief squeeze and simply said, "Just hold on."

He closed the door carefully, and crossed to the driver's side shooting a quick text to Scott. They couldn't leave that thing out there and somebody with some mojo left needed to make sure it was dead-dead.

The drive back to the loft was tense. Derek was silent with his eyes half-shut and his head against the window. He was breathing hard, occasionally a small groan would pass his lips whenever the Jeep hit a bump in the road. Stiles' brain, steeped in adrenaline, was in straight up in over-drive, wondering just what the hell was even happening tonight.

He finally pulled in to the lot and rushed to the other side of the car, quickly opening the door and unbuckling the wayward werewolf. "Come on, Derek," he murmured. "The sooner we get you upstairs, the safer I'll feel."

Derek snorted. "At least buy me dinner first."

He had just managed to shut the car door around Derek's hulking form, and Stiles stopped dead and stared incredulously at him where he was slumping at his side. "Did you just .... did you just make a joke? A _sex joke?_ " Derek simply wheezed in response, and he shook his head, continuing to drag him forward once more.

The elevator in the loft was old and slow, but it was better than trying to get him up the stairs. The front door was unlocked, and Stiles was able to push it right open. He scoffed. "You would think with everything trying to kill you, you could at least lock the deadbolt ..." he muttered, and engaged said deadbolt as the door swung shut.

Stiles tried to deposit Derek as gently as he could, but his muscles were screaming from half-carrying the weight of the behemoth in a leather jacket. “Y'know,” he grunted, “When this is over? You're going on a diet. Puppy's been eating too much kibbles and bits and mmm mmm beefy bits.” 

He lowered him and he bounced a little against the cushions, but otherwise was silent.

"Derek?" He dropped down to his knees in front of him and took his stubbled face in his hands. “Hey, wake up! We've been here way too many times before, dude,” he muttered, a little panicked. “Don't make me hit you again.”

Derek blinked sluggishly, his eyes half-lidded. “'S ok … you hit like a girl anyway,” he slurred.

Stiles glared down at him. “Someone takes a couple whacks upside the head and suddenly he's a regular comedian.” He took a deep breath. “Tell me what I need to do.”

“... I'll heal,” was the hesitant reply. “I don't need anything.”

“Ugh, not the time to be the brooding martyr there, Sour Wolf. Whatever that thing was, you are not healing fast enough,” he told him firmly. “What do we need to do? What can I do?”

Derek was quiet for so long, did nothing but breathe shallowly for so long Stiles thought he had passed out. Finally, without opening his eyes, he said quietly and reluctantly, “I had a ….  My side. Right side. I think it ...” He swallowed hard. “I think it needs a bandage.”

“Ok. Ok, I can work with that.” He eased Derek back and ran for the first aid kit where he knew he kept it in the kitchen. First aid kits never lasted longer than a few weeks in the pack. He rushed back and helped the older man out of the leather jacket, and hissed in sympathy as he saw the laceration on his side through a torn, bloody henley as he settled him down on his left side.

He would never understand how that jacket always survived while the man underneath got shredded.

“This shirt is done, dude. I'm going to have to … cut it … off …” He trailed off, turning bright red as Derek's eyebrows raised halfway to his sweaty hairline. “Hey, it's either that, or you sit up and take it off yourself!” he retorted defensively. Derek's eyebrows went in the opposite direction and knitted into a frown as his eyes fell closed again. “.... Yeah, what I thought,” Stiles muttered darkly and got to work.

He tried to keep his pounding heart under control as the thin layer fell away under the scissors. He tried to control his shaking fingers as he looked at the long bloody cut across his bruised ribs. He held tight pressure to it with one hand, murmuring quiet apologies as Derek groaned against the pain. With the other hand, he tried to clean away the excess blood. After 15 minutes the bleeding had slowed to barely sluggish, and he cleaned it with some special something or other Deacon had made for them to cleanse supernatural wounds. He packed on a load of gauze and taped it down tight for a pressure bandage.

He hastily wiped bloody hands off on a rag next to him and helped Derek sit upright, collapsing on to the couch next to him. “Ok,” he sighed heavily. “Ok that looks alright. What now?”

Derek blinked tiredly at him, barely able to keep his eyes open. His pallor was still holding strong. “I just need … need to sleep … let the … healing do it's …. job …” He slumped sideways again, this time falling heavily into Stiles' chest.

The younger man blinked in surprise, flailing slightly as the sudden weight of the werewolf pushed him back against the arm of the couch. “Derek?” He fumbled for a pulse and found it strong and steady, just like his breathing, which was finally deep and even instead of rapid and shallow. He settled back with a heavy sigh, feeling his own exhaustion set in now that Derek was literally and figuratively out of the woods.

He pulled the blanket off the back of the couch and tucked it around Derek, where he was now effectively passed out shirtless on top of him. He probably couldn't even move him if he tried, he attempted to rationalize. _Or wanted to,_ his stupid brain supplied. He hesitated, then carefully settled his arms around his big shoulders, pushing one hand though his hair. He tried not to over-think it too much when Derek's sleeping face relaxed, and quiet sigh passed his lips, even as he nuzzled closer into Stiles.

Derek Hale was nuzzling his chest what the hell, _whatthehell_.

He didn't have too much longer to think about it. He decided to just go with it, like usual, and tightened his arms around him, even as his own eyes drifted closed, and he fell asleep in a cuddle-puddle with a big, attractive werewolf space heater.

* * *

 

Stiles was slow to wake the next morning. Well, he assumed by the bright light stabbing him through his closed eyelids _oh my gOD_ that it was morning. He frowned and snuffled, eyes still closed. Why was it so bright? The sun rose on the other side of his house …

The night before suddenly crashed into his brain and his consciousness came full circle. He sat up wide awake with a quiet gasp of, “Derek!”

The big man was nowhere to be seen. The blanket that had covered both of them the night before (when Derek fell asleep on him ohmyfuckinggod _stop blushing_ ) had been tucked up to his chin (by ... Derek?!) now fell to his waist as he sat up. He tried not to grimace at the dried blood on his t-shirt. He swung his legs over the side of the couch, calling softly, “Derek, you here?”

He had been half-dead last night, he couldn't have gotten far, right?

He stood with a groan, then a sudden wave of panic sent him scrambling for his phone. Ugh, his dad, he was going to be grounded for like the rest of his life.

The first text, however was from Scott.

_'Hey, took care of the thing. I figured you'd be busy, told your dad your phone died and you were staying with me. How's Derek?'_

“Oh, Scott,” he muttered aloud, “You beautiful, glorious man. The bestest friend I could ever ask for. I could kiss you.” He tucked the phone into his pocket without answering. He had to find the stupid guy before he could give an accurate situation report.

He poked his head around the loft and found nothing. He was in Derek's bedroom, thinking he maybe went there to sleep, but found nothing (he was NOT secretly glad that he hadn't left him on the couch to go to his bed). He was just turning to leave when the dresser caught his eye. He glared down at his bloody t-shirt and made an executive decision. He saved Derek's stupid ass, he could borrow a shirt.

He was holding his bloody shirt in one hand as he walked back down the stairs. He had just gotten his head through one of the werewolf's too-big henleys, when the front door opened. His own wrecked t-shirt fell from his hand, and he froze.

He looked ridiculous, he was sure, mostly shirtless, with another man's shirt hanging off his neck, staring dumbly at the other man who in fact owned the shirt. Derek also froze where he was in the doorway. He was still pale, but definitely looked better, especially as a pink flush rose in his cheeks (Holy Jesus was Derek? Blushing?) as he stared back, a brown paper sack in one arm.

“I uh ….” Stiles stuttered, sure he was blushing too. He quickly pulled the shirt all the way on and pushed up the too-long sleeves. “Um … bloody.” He pointed to his abandoned shirt by way of explanation.

Derek gave his head an infinitesimal shake and came all the way in the loft, closing, and even locking, the door. “Yeah.” he cleared his throat. “Of course. Don't want to explain that one to your dad.” He snorted. “Not that he'd be all the surprised.”

Stiles followed him into the kitchen. Derek looked tired, exhausted really, but better than he had last night. “How're you ….” He took a deep breath and continued. “How're you doing?”

“I'm fine,” was the quiet response. He met the younger man's eyes hesitantly across the counter only to look away almost nervously. “I went to get breakfast.” He gestured awkwardly at the bag he carried in. Bagels, from Stiles' favorite bakery downtown.

He grinned. “Nice!” He approached the bag, and Derek, taking a longer sidelong look at him. He still looked really crappy. Whatever that thing had been was interfering somewhat with his wolfy healing but he was getting there.

He frowned and got sidetracked from the bagels. Without even really thinking about it, he invaded Derek's personal space and pushed a hand up his abdomen, hiking up his shirt. Derek started to make a noise in protest but Stiles cut him off, his fingers trailing along the injury. “How is it this morning?”

Derek frowned down at him, torn between agitation and … something that softened his face more than Stiles had ever seen. He heaved a sigh of resignation and said quietly, “Not healed.” He sounded frustrated. “But better.”

Stiles peeled away the soiled bandage, tossing it to the side, and got a better look at the wound. It was still red and raw but not bleeding, it probably didn't even need a bandage now. Another application or two of Deaton's magic anti-supernatural antibiotic ointment, and he should be a-ok.

It was about then that he realized exactly what his hands were doing. His right hand was braced on Derek's left hip, his left fingertips skating across his ribs along the laceration. For the second time that morning he froze. He felt his heartbeat thud way too hard and looked up quickly to find his face inches away from Derek's.

And Derek. Derek's dark eyes were looking back at him with a kind of softness and fascination he had never seen on his face before. “Thank you.” he murmured quietly. “For everything you did last night. Thank you for saving me.”

“I uhm ...” Stiles' breath hitched and he laughed nervously. He cleared his throat, cursing his awkwardness. But neither of them had stepped away. “It was nothing. Not the first, or last patch job I'll do.”

“No, Stiles.” Derek somehow got closer (what what _whAT_ ) and his hands slid up the younger man's arms to rest on his biceps, Stiles' hands still limp and shaking a little where they were pressed to his bare skin. “I meant in the woods. I know what that did to you. What … killing … even a creature like that … did to you. Took from you. I understand. But you saved me. _Thank you_.”

Stiles really met his eyes now, hopelessly lost in them. “It didn't matter. I couldn't … I couldn't lose you.” he said quietly, honestly.

A look of surprise passed over the werewolf's face, and next thing he knew, the hands on his upper arms were sliding around his back and tugging him into a big warm chest, Derek fitting his body snugly, perfectly against him.

“Thank you, Stiles.”

He lost it then. The surprise wore off and the fear he had shut down, ignored, to focus on Derek came bubbling back up. His throat tightened and he pressed his face into Derek's neck, and fisted his hands in the back of his shirt, holding on like it would kill him to let go as he fought back another round of burning tears that threatened to fall.

One of Derek's big hands cupped the back of his head, and he heard him shushing him quietly. “It's ok, Stiles, it's ok. I've got you. It's ok ….” He whispered it like a mantra and he believed him. He would be ok. Derek had killed before, to defend then people he cared about and against all odds he was ok. He would be there.

He would be ok.

He held him for a long time before he finally pulled back, sniffling and a little embarrassed. Derek's hands came up to his face, tracing away the residual tears with the pads of his thumbs with a hint of a gentle smile on his face.

What Stiles did next was pure impulse and he was fully convinced he'd regret it later. Looking up into Derek's face, kind like he had never seen it before, after the last emotionally charged 12 hours. He stood on his tiptoes and pressed his lips to the werewolf's. Nothing fancy, not even tongue. Just a heartfelt, chaste kiss to his chapped, beautiful mouth.

It lasted 10 seconds at most and he pulled away, stunned with himself. Derek was looking back at him, beyond surprised, like he had never seen anything like him before. “Oh my god.” He was mortified with himself. “Derek … I don't know what I was … God, I'm so sorry ...” he stuttered. He could feel his face red hot as Derek blinked at him.

He tried to pull away completely, stumbling when he had his brain short-circuited.

Derek's hands steadied him and halted his retreat, pulling him closer. In fact, he lifted him clear off the floor, his legs automatically going around his waist to steady himself as he settled him back on the counter and pressed into him, his mouth covering Stiles', kissing him like he needed him to breathe. Derek's palms skirted up his sides, pulling him closer. His fingertips traced the lines of his back and shoulders, his hands coming to rest on either side of his neck.

Stiles couldn't even form a coherent thought. His hands had fallen limp against Derek's chest, fingers fisting in his shirt as he held on for dear life when he suddenly found himself airborne. Now, as Derek's chapped lips worked so perfectly against his own, his brain caught up and he used the grip to pull him as close as he could manage. He was hyper-aware of everything, the stubble scratching his cheeks, the flush of heat and skin, the quiet sounds of heavy breathing and nothing else. He couldn't smell anything but Derek, felt their hearts thudding in time where their chests were pressed together.

Derek's teeth scraped against his bottom lip, and a quiet moan escaped the werewolf, surprising a whimper out of Stiles. The sudden sounds were enough to break them out of the reverie and they finally pulled back from one another, panting as Stiles rested his forehead against Derek's, staring into his face with wide, blown, surprised eyes.

"I ... " he coughed. "Wow," was all Stiles' hoarse voice could manage.

Derek looked clearly equally stunned. "Yeah ..." He cleared his throat and tried again, his eyes searching Stiles face nervously as he muttered, "Sorry?"

Stiles blinked, inches away from Derek, and just started laughing, the high tension of the moment diffused by the vulnerability and worry on Derek's puppy face. Quite frankly it was adorable. He threw his arms around Derek's neck with reckless abandon and pulled him into a hug. "Sour Wolf, you have got absolutely nothing to apologize for." He pulled back, far enough now to actually look at one another, a huge grin on his face. Derek returned the smile hesitantly but matching every bit of it's brightness. Stiles leaned in and pressed another quick kiss to his lips before sliding off the counter to stand on the floor in front of the big werewolf. "I think we might have a whole lot to talk about, but I think we have a whole lot of time to do it so..." He held up the brown paper bag, long forgotten. "Breakfast first?"

Derek nuzzled his neck for a moment to hide his growing smile. "This is a good look on you," he murmured, fingers playing with the hem of his own henley on the smaller man. "Kinda like the way I smell on you," he grinned against his skin. Stiles shivered as Derek kissed the side of his neck and took the bag of bagels from him.

They separated reluctantly, both a little awestruck. "Only half a bagel for you, pup. I was serious about that diet," Stiles called. Derek's face dropped abruptly into it's usually brood, and Stiles laughed his way to the coffee maker.

He was probably in for a world of misery, he realized, but they always say misery loves company. And he wouldn't have it any other way.

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes I have random rambles, and sometimes I bother to share them with the internet. It's a half-assed little plot bunny, but it was fun and I hope you enjoyed :)


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